


The Apocalypse is Not a Buddy Show

by reading_is_in



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Angst, Demons, Drama, Gen, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-05
Updated: 2010-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 23:02:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reading_is_in/pseuds/reading_is_in
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because you're fallen, doesn't mean you can't fight demon crime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Authorial apology: I am having to re-upload this because I did a chapter twice by accident, and then in an attempt to delete it I..um...deleted the fic. Yes. So I'm sorry that people's comments have vanished, I really do appreciate them and I hope you continue to enjoy the story despite my technological incompetencies.
> 
> Disclaimer: All recognized characters belong to Eric Kripke/CW. Written for love not money.

In retrospect, leaving Cas watching The Professionals on a black-and-white motel box wasn't the most intelligent thing to do: the ex (ish) angel had a tendency to take whatever he saw on television a factual documentary. But Dean had needed to get out for a while, and his last experience involving Castiel, booze and strippers and hadn't ended well for anyone.  
Sam was off – Dean wasn't going to think about that, there were only so many things he could deal with at once, and the currently impending Apocalypse was forcing a re-arrangement of priorities. His brother was, after all, twenty-six - and by God, he remembered that age, the way he'd thrown it off as a casual assertion of authority the night he'd collected his brother from Stanford. Dean would never trust Ruby: and perhaps he would never completely trust that Sam was no longer accepting the dubious benefits of her diet-and-fitness regime. He didn't know what was worse: the exorcisms, the blood thing, or the thought of them fucking each other, which thanks to Sam's all-too-vivid narration, was apt to pop into his head without notice or permission. 'Dude – too much information'.  
"Being a hunter is somewhat like working for Criminal Investigations Five," piped up Castiel, when Dean got back to the room on the ragged end of a tequila high, headache already threatening at the corners of his eyelids. The angel was sitting exactly as Dean had left him, neatly on the end of one of the bunks, head on one side in that weird bird-like posture of attention. The Professionals' credits were still running: apparently the station had been showing a marathon.  
"No Cas," said Dean. "CI5 is made up. Being a hunter is real." He sat down on the other bed.  
"Agents Bodie and Doyle seem convinced that the organization is quite real," Castiel said doubtfully, "As does their superior. It seems an effective counterforce to terrorist and violent crime in central London."  
Dean made a mental note never to let Cas get onto the internet.  
"In any case," Cas went on, "Hunters, like these agents, often operate in pairs, attempting to do good by confronting evil, even though they may sometimes doubt themselves and their weapons. They also seem to be very emotionally attached to one another, revealing it at moments of peril or suffering."  
Dean tried to turn the TV off, but the remote wasn't working. "Agents Bodie and Doyle aren't real either, Castiel. They're actors. Or were actors: I think the little guy's dead now. Anyway it's a TV show. Dudes dress up, run around with fake guns, and get filmed to go on the screen. Look, can you go to sleep? Or just – lie down? And be like, really, really quiet for a bit?"  
"Doyle never deserted Bodie for a female," Cas observed.  
"Castiel. Stop talking."  
"But then Bodie did not die, or go to hell."  
Dean pulled the pillow over his head, despite the fact he was both thirsty and needed a piss. He wondered what his chances of going to sleep ignoring both the demands of his body and his new fount of angelic wisdom were.  
"It is possible that hunters also fornicate more frequently than CI5 agents."  
Dean pulled the pillow off his face. "Cas, if you don't shut up within the next five seconds, I will kick you out on your ass."  
"But where would I go?" The ex-angel turned wide bright-blue eyes on the hunter. "I cannot reach my brothers and sisters."  
Really, that expression was too familiar. And too effective.

* * *

Castiel did not sleep: he could sleep, if he wanted to, but retained enough of his celestial nature that such time-consuming pursuits as sleeping and eating were rarely necessary. (He had, however, developed an alarming and curious penchant for the soft crunchy pieces of inflated corn humans coated with sugar and butter to ingest whilst they observed the television). Tonight he did not want to sleep, and wondered if he could turn the television back on very quietly without waking Dean. To his disappointment, the power supply had been cut off. He pressed his vessel's hand to the screen and frowned, attempting to channel the residues of his angelic energy. Nothing happened. He attempted to not to be crushed: all things were as God willed them, he reminded himself sternly, and if it was part of the Plan that he return to the Host, he would do so. Otherwise, he must have patience.  
Castiel sat cross-legged on the bed and meditated, watching Dean sleep. The hunter looked tired and angry, even now, but the essential bright nature which the angel had perceived even in Hell was evident to Castiel despite his new deficiency of Grace. It was becoming harder and harder to perceive the nature of humans just by looking at them, and he wondered sadly if his impression of his friend's soul was only memory after all.  
Castiel.  
The vessel's eyes widened, though he was unaware he had commanded them to. He would perceive that one anywhere.  
Anna?  
We must speak.  
How – why do you commune with me? Is it not forbidden?  
Suddenly Castiel was not in the room anymore. He felt shock. Communicating this way – the non-bodily way of the Host – used to be his nature and preference, and it was forming words through Jimmy's mouth that required effort. Anna wasn't using a vessel, and he felt tiny and soiled.  
You fell. She didn't seem surprised.  
And you have your Grace again, he acknowledged.  
This is an unprecedented turn of events. She had never been without a certain humour.  
What is the Will? It was hard not to address her as his superior.  
One of the seals is about to be broken.  
The seals are breaking everywhere. He was surprised at his own despondent tone.  
You can stop this one. Make Dean go St. Stephen's Church. The demons are about to unearth the bones of an erring priest.  
Why doesn't the Host-  
We can't. Anna cut him off.You know our numbers are limited. I have to leave, Castiel. I should not be here.  
But –  
There was light, and then Castiel was back in the motel room. For the first time appreciated Dean's profound discomfort at angelic intrusions into the human brain. He was not aware that time had passed, yet the light through the cheap, tatty curtains told him it was morning already. Dean was awake, standing as though he had just come in from the bathroom.  
"You okay?" he said warily. "I don't think I ever saw you dream before."  
"I am well," said Castiel, feeling baffled. "But I believe that you and I must go on a mission together."


	2. Chapter 2

"It is rather odd time for a mission," said Castiel, from Sam's – from the shotgun seat of the Impala.  
"Do I want to ask?" said Dean.  
"Ask what?"  
"Why it's an odd time for a mission."  
"I do not know if you want to ask," said Cas sadly: "I cannot perceive minds anymore."  
Dean blew out his breath and indicated a left turn, glaring as some jerk in an SUV pulled in tightlt to deny him access. The Impala wasn't made for cities, or traffic build up. She attracted a lot of glances from suits on the sidewalk with briefcases: jealous, clearly, remembering dreams they'd harbored years before selling their souls to banking or IT industries. 'It's not a curse. It's a gift', Zachariah had said. It was hard to keep faith with this life, sometimes. But he was trying.  
Sometimes, Cas reminded Dean of in Sam in kindergarten: curious, fond of long words, and prone to missing the non-literal side of two-person conversation. Dean couldn't remember feeling innocent: but the brief, glasslike memory of Sammy's naivety was shocking in clarity and sharpness. It left him angry.  
Castiel claimed to be back in touch with the angels: or rather, they had contacted him, with notice of shit about to go down at the suburban Catholic church:  
"How many demons?" Dean had asked, checking the stocks of holy water, rocksalt and iron.  
"Anna did not say," Castiel said.  
"And you didn't think to ask?"  
"It was not my place," said Castiel somberly.  
"Why is it an odd time for a mission, Cas?" Dean asked now. It wasn't the ex-angel's fault that he wasn't Sam, and it wasn't his fault he was indoctrinated.  
"It is morning. The sky is light, and shows little chance of precipitation. Most missions are undertaken at night, and completed in heavy rainfall."  
Dean braked a little too sharply and silently apologized to his girl. He wasn't going to get through to Cas with argument. He considered lifting a camcorder to demonstrate some effects trickery, but it didn't seem worth the risk of the theft, and the tech stuff was more Sammy's department anyway.  
They left the main drag, and he coaxed the Impala through a network of lower-rise apartment buildings. She grumbled at the constriction and low speed, attracting more gawps now than jealous glances. Dean glared threateningly back at anyone who looked at her.  
"That is the spire," Castiel pointed. The grey stone tower was incongruous, stern and elegant, rising above the living places: obviously a relic from before the suburbs went to seed. Dean wondered what attendance was like these days.  
"I ain't parking her around here. Some scumbag will key her paint, or worse."  
"There is no time," said Cas grimly, and suddenly that intent look was back in his eyes, the one that reminded Dean he was not quite human. Dean gritted his teeth and pulled into a sidestreet. His baby stuck out like a black gem, and he checked twice that no punk kids were eyeing her before he opened the trunk.  
"Am I not to carry a gun?" Castiel asked, as Dean holstered a rock-salt loaded pistol.  
"You know how to use one?"  
"Yes."  
"I mean have you fired one before, not have you seen it on television."  
"Jimmy did."  
"You're kidding."  
"I do not kid," Castiel was deadly serious. "Several years ago a convicted felon with a history of violence was at large in Pontiac, Illinois. Claire was an infant at the time. Jimmy acquired the pistol and learned to use it in case he should have to defend his family."  
"Huh." Dean's eyebrows raised, and his esteem for Jimmy Novak raised a notch with them. "But I thought you said Jimmy was gone."  
"He is gone. I retain his muscle memory."  
"In that case, take this." Dean handed him a simple revolver, one Sam had used as a teenager, and ignored the sadness it brought him. Here then. It's loaded with rocksalt. Keep it concealed until we get there, and don't do anything stupid."

Castiel walked fast, impelled by a sense of urgency, and Dean kept up with him. They reached the church in less than ten minutes: a small neo-gothic structure, one spire, neglected angel statues on either side of the wooden door. A black iron padlock hung broken from the bolt. Dean cursed.  
"They are here." Castiel made to go in.  
"Hold up," said Dean. "We don't even know how many of them are in there."  
"That does not matter. This is our mission."  
"Yeah, missions don't include walking in blind to get pointlessly killed."  
"Perhaps you are right," the ex-angel considered what he had learned that day: "We should perform reconnaissance."  
"Okay. Anna said that the seal is a corpse, right?"  
"Skeleton," Castiel corrected.  
"Whatever. Chances are the crypt is going to be in the basement if they had to get inside to it. You stay here – watch the door. I'll head round the back and see if there's a cellar door or something. Stay out of sight, and don't take on anything you can't handle."  
Dean was giving him a lot of orders. Still, Castiel supposed he had been a hunter longer, and for all the eons he had existed, Castiel had limited experience of this plane. He concealed himself behind one of the statues and waited, pistol aimed at the door.  
Dean reappeared after a moment. "There are three," he said. "They're working on the incantations. Haven't opened the tomb yet. We need to move fast."  
"It would be most effective," Castiel said, "If we each approach and fire on them from one direction. One of us could shoot from the basement door, and the other from the outside entrance you report."  
Dean gave him a mildly impressed look. "That's not bad."  
"It is a well-tested scenario."  
"Yeah? Well we'll see. You take the outside shaft; I'll take the interior. Aim for the chick with the chalice. I'll take the bald guy. And remember salt won't kill them. Take some of this." He handed Cas a thin spool of stranded wire. "Galanized iron. We incapacitate 'em with the salt guns till we can tie 'em up with the wire. Then we get them in a devil's trap for exorcism. Course it depends on how strong the demons are. Some can still put up a bitch of a fight after a plate of salted French fries."  
"What shall we do if we fail to incapacitate them?"  
"Run. Or, die."  
Castiel felt the first twinge of apprehension. Being a mortal was hardly ideal, but it was better than not being.  
"You ready?" Dean asked him. He nodded.  
"Okay. The trapdoor is opposite the window, so you'll be able to see me when we're in position. You fire on my signal, not before."  
"Wait! What is the signal?"  
"Jeez, I don't know, I'll just nod or something!"  
It would have to suffice. Castiel wished they had walkie talkies, or at least some kind of code. But there was no time for that now. Agents had to rely on each other when lacking appropriate technology.  
"I am ready," he said, and stepped up to the door, as Dean disappeared around the back of the church.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean had to remember that Castiel was a warrior, and try not to think about how oddly his friend was adapting to 'humanity'. He had given Cas the easiest shot, and to his relief, when he looked for the ex-angel from the shaft window, Castiel was in position. Dean sighted along the barrel at the bald demon. The girl who seemed to be the ring-leader lifted the chalice. The third demon looked on, holding a candle in a heavy metal candlestick, Dean raised his eyes to Castiel. The ex-angel looked intent and like he was aiming correctly. Dean widened his eyes subconsciously, ready to give 'the signal' –  
\- when the third demon raised her eyes, met his, then turned around and clubbed the chalice-bearer over the head with the candlestick. She dropped the chalice immediately, and it shattered, crimson blood splattering over the tiles, as the bald demon turned to swing at the attacker. The third demon ducked and brought her knee up viciously to connect with his genitals. Dean winced despite himself. The bald demon grunted and fell back – the chalice-bearer had recovered, but so had Dean recovered from his surprise. He blasted the chalice-bearer with enough rock salt to floor her. Meanwhile, the renegade demon had an iron wire tought around the ball guy's neck – he was snarling, subdued as she stood over him. Dean kicked the windowframe in and clambered inside, quickly chalking a devil's trap around all three of the demons. His pulse was raised with a adrenaline, and he found himself a little disappointed at not getting more of the action.  
"You are a defector," said Castiel. He had entered the crypt at the same time Dean had, and was now addressing the candlestick wielding demon: "Unless, of course, you are a double agent." His blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. The third demon smirked in way Dean would recognize anywhere:  
"Ruby."  
"Not bad," she nodded: "You're getting quicker on the uptake, Deano."  
"Where's Sam? And – where's your vessel?"  
"Coma patient? Currently engrossed in silent prayer in St. Patricks, Little Italy. It was either that place or this one, and I couldn't move her fast enough."  
"That's…vaguely gross."  
Ruby shrugged. "So you gonna let me out of here?" She raised her eyebrows.  
"Nope," Dean said, but didn't begin an exorcism.  
"She could be a potentially useful ally," said Castiel, and to Ruby, "Why did you stop the seal breaking?"  
"Cultural diversity 101, angel boy: not all demons are alike. Believe it or not, not all of us are gunning for the Big A."  
"Where's Sam?" Dean asked again.  
"Am I your brother's keeper?" Ruby raised her eyebrows. "Thought that was your job."  
"You mean he's not with you?"  
"Haven't seen him in three days," Ruby shrugged. "Went out for pizza, came back and the room was empty. No untoward signs of a struggle."  
"Untoward?"  
"Eh, a couple of broken lamps. But you know our Sammy these days."  
It was a deep and abiding pain to Dean that he couldn't particularly dispute that.  
"He's not eight anymore, big bro," Ruby shrugged: "When an itinerant twenty-six year old with no dependents takes off without notice, that's not a crime. That's freedom of movement. "  
"No, something's wrong," Dean said. Wasn't that the truth.  
"Well, have it your way. I got to get back to coma girl. Don't want the parishioners to get suspicious – nobody's that devout. If you would?" she yanked on the iron wire, stunning her captive, then dropped him and looked pointedly at the edge of the devil's trap. Narrowing his eyes in suspicion, Dean carefully erased a single line, allowed Ruby to step out, then chalked it in again. "Later kids." Ruby evacuated her host, who dropped bonelessly to the tile floor. Dean checked briefly for a pulse, but there wasn't one.  
They exorcised the remaining demons, then got back to the Impala. Her tires had been slashed, front and back, but Dean gritted his teeth and reminded himself it could always have been worse.

* * *

Castiel.  
Anna was talking to him again. Castiel sat up quickly. In truth he had geniunely been asleep – his first mission as a (more-or-less) human, whilst enjoyable, had tired him more than he expected. Moonlight flooded the sparse motel room. Dean didn't so much as shift in his sleep as Castiel responded:  
I am listening. What is the Will?  
You must get Sam Winchester back. We need him on our side.  
Castiel was startled. Anna had been his superior in his other life: perhaps she could operate like his senior officer, using her angelic insight to seek out missions for him and Dean. He smiled a little at the thought. But senior officers had to abide by the rules of the organization, and he knew that what Anna was asking of him was not theWwill of the host. He had not had the heart to tell Dean yet – but the majority opinion in heaven was that Sam Winchester would have to be killed soon. No human could oppose Lilith, or resist Lucifer. Hubris, the downfall of many humans before him, was preventing Sam from acknowledging his weakness and submitting to heaven. He professed faith – but his actions showed that he was hell-bent on his prideful path. Castiel felt a twinge of sadness at the probably literal application of the expression.  
We cannot force the humans, He said to Anna, They must do as they will.  
But he must have the chance first! Sam Winchester has been taken by three demons. They are forcing him to drink their blood until his will eroded. That is not free choice.  
Castiel felt a shameful moment of doubt at Anna's definition of 'forcing'. Hurriedly he dismissed that from his mind. What would Dean say?  
Do you know where he is? He asked Anna.  
An abandoned warehouse in the Meatpacking district. She directed him. Wake Dean: go now.  
His tiredness vanished as the message ended: he thought that a sense of purpose, the satisfying ritual of finishing one mission and being awarded another, probably went a long way towards keeping agents refreshed and ready for action.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I understand, the Meatpacking District of NY has in fact undergone a renaissance in recent years, becoming something of a cultural hub. For purposes of this story, we must pretend it is still mostly warehouses and holds a dubious reputation, with no offence to any denizens intended!

"It is not regulatory," Cas said uneasily.  
"But….?" Dean was sitting on the end of his bunk, tugging a boot on. Castiel had woken him almost as soon as the vision had ended. Dean had agreed quickly this time, obviously convinced that Castiel's information was reliable.  
"We could still be a 'dynamic duo'" Castiel quoted. Dean winced and repeated,  
"But….?"  
"I think we ought to secure backup."  
"From _who?_" Dean looked incredulous.  
"Ruby…"  
"Oh no," Dean stood up and started throwing things into his backpack, not looking at Castiel: "Stop thinking about that right now."  
"She was of invaluable assistance last time!" Castiel objected, "And there are three of them! There are but two of us!"  
"Three once we find Sammy."  
Castiel was silent.  
"Don't even go there," Dean said.  
"Go where?"  
"Where you're thinking."  
"We are going to the Meatpacking District," Castiel reminded him.  
"Yes Cas. Get in the car."__

* * *  
"It is suitable vehicle," Cas said approvingly.  
"She," Dean corrected from the driver's seat. "A good car is like a beautiful woman."  
"In what way?"  
"Well….well, 'cause she's sexy, and powerful, I guess. It's a figure of speech."  
"A metaphor," Castiel nodded sagely. "She does possess a certain…attraction."  
"Damn right," Dean smiled a little, pleased despite himself: he'd always been a sucker for compliments. He watched from the corner of his eye as Castiel touched the dashboard, ran his fingers over the inside passenger door, curious and naively appreciative. The Impala's engine, still tamped down, rumbled approval. Sam never really _noticed_ the car: not for what she was. To Sam, she was a tool, same as a gun or knife was a tool, and of course he'd kept in condition while Dean was - away -, because it would be stupid not to maintain your tools. But he didn't talk to her, didn't _listen_ to her: another thing he had in common with Dad. Maybe someday he'd take Cas to a classic car rally.   
Where the hell had that come from?  
Half of his mind was preoccupied with getting to Sam, and he pushed forwards as much as traffic permitted. But he wasn't – panicked, as he'd have been in the old days. Like the time Sam had vanished for a week, after Dad, and he'd been crazy with worry, imagining all kinds of worst case scenarios...that was before he'd seen his brother's mental exorcism, before Sam had killed Alistair, before Ruby. Yeah, he still had his duties, and he was still – anxious. But he'd harbored the image of Sam as dependent and needing his protection at all times way beyond its reality, and the last months had shattered that.  
Castiel glanced around uneasily as they entered the Meatpacking District. It was made up mostly of warehouses, and the dull weather made the hulking brick and wood structures look menacing and shadowy. The sidewalks were cracked in places, ancient dark stains spreading down to the gutters, and lorries were parked intermittently in the process of unloading. Graffiti decorated the garage doors: mostly unoriginal FUCK-U's and advertisements for sex, plus an incongruous SINNER REPENT and an impressive portrait. Cas's eyes widened at the sight of a whole side of beef, swinging from a hook in the back of an open lorry.  
"Where do you think burgers come from?" Dean told him.  
Castiel gulped and nodded. The delivery guy caught them looking and gave them a You-Got-A-Problem expression. Castiel dropped his gaze.  
"That is the place," the ex-angel pointed towards an abandoned-looking warehouse on the corner of two adjacent streets.   
"Okay," Dean started looking for somewhere relatively inconspicuous he could leave the Impala. He'd actually considered taking a bus, for the first time in over ten years, but he could feel his girl giving him offended vibes even as he made to walk past her. Well, he considered resignedly, today, he could actually use the excuse to punch somebody in the face.  
"What is our plan?" Castiel asked, as they pulled into the sidestreet.  
"The same plan as we always have, Cas," Dean said wearily. "Go in, win or lose, get Sammy or die tryin'. Still got your gun?"  
"Yes. I feel we neglect strategy."  
"Suggestions?"  
Castiel thought. "Most such structures have inbuilt sprinkler systems for use in case of fire. If we could locate the water supply, I could attempt to sanctify it. We could assault the enemy with holy water. Though of course, it is uncertain what affect that would….have…."  
" – on Sammy." Dean finished for him, and resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. Christ, he was tired of this. Who'd have thought _that_would ever wind up as a consideration? "No, we can't. I'm not going to chance burning the kid's skin off, whatever he…" Did. Is. Has Done.  
"That leaves us with only the stealth approach utilized last time. It did work fairly effectively, despite gaining aid from an unexpected quarter." Was Castiel _reprimanding_ him for not inviting the uber bitch?  
"Okay, whatever. Loaded up?"  
"The gun has sufficient salt reserves."  
"Then let's move."  
Castiel nodded and undid his seatbelt. Dean's mouth quirked. He and Sammy never bothered with those, and it touched him, somehow, how Castiel was trying to be careful with his new mortal getup. He locked the Impala and patted her for good luck before heading out to the warehouse.____

* * *  
Anna's information was correct: there were three demons. One of them was possessing a child, which made Castiel feel vaguely sick, a decidedly mortal reaction. They had Samuel Winchester tied to a chair, not that he seemed to be resisting – he had evidently been subdued by violence, as a purpling bruise down the side of his face indicated. Castiel felt empathy. He understood pain now. The corners of Samuel's mouth dripped with blood – not his own, Castiel assumed. He did not understand. Sam was tied to the chair, but if the demons were forcing him to drink their blood, oughtn't he be strong enough to free himself? And the demon standing over Sam – one possessing the body of an old man – was doing no violence. He was – talking – just talking. With his new limitations, Castiel could not make it out the words. And Sam appeared to be listening, though his eyes remained half-closed and his head tilted back. There was something in his attitude of – reception.  
Beside Castiel, Dean cursed quietly. There just one accessible window. They would not be able to attack from opposite sides, reducing their chances of success.  
"This isn't _fair_," Dean whispered harshly. "This is some reverse _Clockwork Orange_ shit. You sons of bitches never gave him a chance."  
"Us?" Castiel asked.  
"Heaven!"  
"I am not of heaven anymore," Castiel reminded him sadly.  
"Right," Dean blinked, looked vaguely apologetic. "Sorry."  
"That is alright," Castiel said, before realizing. "I am glad to be on this mission."  
Before he could properly assimilate that, Dean lifted his gun and said,   
"Ready."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Special Geek Bonus Note!* According to my *ahem* research, lap belts became compulsory in US cars in 1963. Shoulder belts became compulsory for front seats in 1968, so the chances are a 67 would have them fitted. As far as I've noticed, S and D never wear seatbelts of any kind, which means that they are breaking the law again. Very naughty.


	5. Chapter 5

Two of them, two shots – and the child-demon and the woman in the corner went down. The third demon, possessing the old man, didn't so much as turn around. His shoulders flexed, though, almost like a wild animal preparing to take its prey down.  
"Well, look who's here," he said slowly: "Daddy's little disappointment and his replacement sidekick. Our favorite substitute heroes." Spinning fast, he raised a hand, causing the planks Cas and Dean had been leaning against to crumble in from the alley. They stumbled forwards into the warehouse. Castiel felt abruptly trapped, limbs pinioned like an insect's he'd seen, pinned to a board in a museum. The demon was holding him, and the residues of his power were insufficient to match it. From the anger in Dean's face, and the rigid lines of his body, Castiel knew the demon was doing the same to him.  
Sam looked up, glanced at them, barely registering interest. Dean said Sam's name in that way humans did which Castiel thought meant a lot of things. Sam looked past his brother and frowned, asking,  
"Dean? What are you doing here?"  
"We are rescuing you," Castiel said: "repeated and forced administration of intoxicants is an assault upon free will."  
"Castiel," Sam half-smiled regretfully, but his gaze did not move from the remains of the alley wall. The demons were not assaulting him now: why did he not struggle?  
""Excuse him," said the demon, as though he had read Castiel's mind. "We haven't been feeding him much. Got to string it out at first, you understand, can't have him getting too strong before he comes round to our way of seeing things."  
"And what way would that be?" Dean snarled.  
"The pragmatic one," said the demon: "self-preservation."  
"You are not, as the phrase is, 'gunning' for the apocalypse?" Castiel asked carefully.  
"Oh, why not?" shrugged the demon that pinned them: "The apocalypse is happening, whether we like it or not. You think Hell is a democracy? They don't take suggestions from our pay grade. We're just trying to get in on the ground floor. Bringing Lilith a present," jerking his head, he indicated Sam. "Why kill a wild animal when you can tame it?"  
"You piece of shit," Dean struggled furiously against the invisible bonds.  
"Play nice," the demon scolded, and Dean grunted in pain. With that expenditure of effort, Castiel felt the demon's control over him waver ever so slightly. He turned his attention inwards, focusing on the residues of his energy. He felt the divine spark inside him, dulled, but invincible. Castiel envisaged a flame, flittering deep in a pile of embers, willed it to grow and spark up again.  
"Why don't you be sensible for once, Dean?" the demon asked. "Join the winning side. So, we can't offer you Heaven. Big deal. Eternal boredom, toe the party line, sit around taking orders from douchebags like Zachariah? You'd hate it. Look, you're a talented torturer, got a positive penchant for lust, greed to spare, and a healthy measure of the old wrath going…no doubt you're headed for downstairs anyway. Hell, your whole family will be here soon."  
"Why don't you be sensible and let us go before I think up whole new ways to turn you inside out and burn the inside of your skin off, you pathetic bitch?"  
Something in Castiel twisted. There was hatred in the human's voice, and bloodlust. You ask me to open that door and walk through it, he remembered the half-warning, half-plea, you will not like what walks back out But the demon just grinned revoltingly, revealing teeth worn down in a decaying mouth, and ran its tongue round its lips:  
"What d'you say, Sammy?" it called out. "Reckon big brother and his wingman should join the party?"  
"Party's over," Sam said, and Castiel's heart rose, realizing that Sam had been working quietly on the ropes holding him all the time. Though what he was going to do was a mystery at this point – he appeared barely strong to stand, and was gripping the back of the chair for support. Sam extended one hand, towards the demon, slowly, and Castiel realized he was about to attempt an exorcism.  
"Lamia!" shouted the old demon, and Castiel saw that the demon possessing the woman had pulled itself up against the back wall. She was smiling, holding one arm out – and Sam's gaze went to her automatically. Castiel sensed Dean's hope fall.  
"Not so fast," Lamia admonished, drawing a knife slowly across her forearm. "You aren't going anywhere without this, Sam, and you know it."  
Sam faltered. His eyes were drawn inexorably to the thin stream of crimson. The chair rattled against the stone floor as his hands trembled. Castiel stared, unable to look away, as the younger Winchester drew in a breath, and the tip of his tongue escaped to run lightly over cracked lips.  
"Don't," said Dean quietly.  
Sam's eyes flickered between his brother and the stream of blood. It was impossible, Castiel knew: any second now, Sam was going to drop the chair and lunge towards the blood. They couldn't help it. Humans liked to think of themselves as cerebral creatures, able to pacify the demands of their bodies with their controlling minds, but they were fooling themselves. Deprive them enough, and they'll break. Why was Famine a horseman, after all? It wasn't even a failing. It was just the way they were put together. Anna was right. This wasn't fair.  
But these Winchesters never failed to surprise him. Sam said,  
"No," and turned back to the demon pinning them, held up one hand again, and the knifeblade of pain which his captor felt reverberated through the angel. Sam wasn't strong enough to exorcise the demon, not after four days with barely any sustenance, but his assault on the demon loosened its hold enough for Castiel to break it. Castiel turned on the demon and used his summoned energy to bend its will backwards, long enough for Dean to shoot it with enough rock salt to disable it. Then he fired on the female demon again, whilst Castiel hurriedly chalked devils' traps around their captives. Sam tried to help, over Dean's protests, but in truth he wasn't very useful. Castiel didn't know what to say, and kept sneaking little glances at Sam from the corner of his vessel's eye. He didn't understand how Sam had resisted the blood, and the younger Winchester's essence was completely obscured to him. He could see nothing inside.  
"So," said Dean casually when the traps were finished, sitting Sam back in the chair but disguising the action as a playful shove, "How'd they get the drop on you?" He produced a flask of water from his bag and handed it to his brother.  
"They didn't," Sam said, when he'd finished drinking: "I went with them."


	6. Chapter 6

"What?"  
Dean couldn't believe it. Or he could believe it, and didn't want to.  
"I went with them voluntarily," Sam said again: "They lied."  
"Lying is their modus operandi," Castiel chose that moment to offer.  
"Um hi Cas," Sam said. "You look…"  
"Mortal," Cas said sadly. "I know. Nonetheless, I have been learning there are avenues which even humans may pursue to the benefit of the greater good."  
"Such as?" Sam half-smiled.  
"Agents Bodie and Doyle-"  
"Cas, not now," Dean cut him off sharply. "What did they tell you?" he crouched down next to Sam, resisted the urge to clap his palms on his little brother's thighs the way he would when Sam was ten and moping over something that happened at school, or hunting, or because he didn't think anyone liked him.  
"Dean, I'm not going to lie to you anymore," Sam said tiredly. "They said they were working against Lilith. They said they had something that could help me. And they did," he smirked ruefully. "It just came with conditions."  
That old, cold, feeling of betrayal embedded itself in Dean's guts again. He ought to be immune to this by now. He chose to push it aside for the moment:  
"Come on, Sammy," Dean pushed himself up and offered Sam his arm: "Let's get you out of here."  
Sam looked at him. Dean heard, 'Why?' But they'd deal with that later, he told himself. Let him get Sammy out of here, cleaned up and fed, and he'd deal with the rest of it later. That way of thinking had worked for the first seventeen years of Sam's life, and old habits died hard.

* * *  
The ride back to the motel was silent – Dean briefly checked over the bruise on Sam's face, to Sam's discomfort, and Castiel felt vaguely saddened, because the awkwardness of the humans' movements and the way they avoided eye-contact with each other was so inconsistent with the bond he had perceived between them once, when his Grace was intact, stretched thin but unbroken even when the divide of Earth and Hell separated them but now…Castiel couldn't see it anymore, and he fervently hoped that was due to his changed condition.  
At the motel, Dean ushered Sam upstairs, kept a hand near his arm, but mechanically, ingrained behavior. He told his brother to 'go clean up', and Sam didn't answer, but disappeared into the bathroom. Castiel shifted awkwardly. He had thought he'd understood. At this point, there ought to be camaraderie, affection, a quiet mood of self-congratulation and good natured-mockery as they reflected on a mission well accomplished. Instead there was only the sound of the shower, and Dean putting his gun away with precise, efficient movements.  
"Shall I - procure food?" Castiel offered in a moment of inspiration. The humans, especially Sam, would be requiring it, and in truth he would not be – averse to eating, himself.  
"Yeah." Dean said.  
"Of what kind?"  
"Whatever you want."  
"This vessel enjoys eating hamburgers."  
The corner of Dean's mouth quirked, but his eyes remained sparkless.  
"Sure thing. Just get some of that healthy crap too okay, for Sammy? Like a salad or whatever? And one of those girly smoothies if they have them."  
"Blended fruit is ungendered."  
"Just get the one with the longest name."  
"I shall return shortly."  
And they were – quiet, the rest of that night, and did not discuss demons, or demon blood, or even talk about heaven. Castiel could barely read Sam at all, but Dean seemed more – content, than the past few days, though the edge of anxiety never disappeared altogether. Eventually – around 4 a.m.- there came the inevitable realization they had only two beds.  
"I'll take the couch," Sam offered.  
"No you won't," Dean said quickly. "You need a proper sleep." And they looked at each other, a slight expression of incredulity passed over Sam's face, and even Castiel could understand how misplaced, out of context and anachronistic the paternal direction sounded.  
"You may both have the beds," declared the ex-angel: "I do not require sleep." Really, it was unprecedented, the amount he'd been sleeping lately. Perhaps if he was alone he would receive another message from Anna. Dean looked like he was going to object to that too, then changed his mind.  
"Stay out of bars," he told Castiel. Then: "I can't believe I just said that."  
"I have existed since before this earth was formed from the abyss," Castiel told him gravely. "I believe I am capable of navigating the streets of a human city."  
Dean looked skeptical. Sam looked asleep.

* * *

As it turned out, the humans had complicated things, making their streets much more intricate and multiple than necessary. In Jimmy's tie and office shoes, Castiel was uneasily aware of being stared at, and he wondered if anyone would believe him that he did not, in fact, have a credit card. He stumbled upon an all-night cinema, and watched a film called Starsky and Hutch, which was also about police, but left him confused and vaguely bored rather than entertained. When he returned to the motel around 8 a.m., Dean was alone again. The TV was on, the newscaster discussing freak electric storms with an expert on global warming, but Dean did not appear to be watching it.  
"Where is Sam?" Castiel asked anxiously.  
Dean didn't reply.  
Castiel went quietly into the bathroom and attended to the demands of his human vessel. When he returned, Dean still stared unseeingly at the television, but he said:  
"You know what's the problem with buddy shows?"  
Castiel sat carefully down on the other bed.  
"I do not," he said.  
"Or maybe the problem with TV in general. Fucking TV."  
"It is…acting?" Castiel supplied.  
"Hey, look at that, you're learning. That's not the problem with it, though." Dean turned to face him abruptly. Castiel started a little at the intensity in his face. "The problem is the fucking medium. It's 2-D, man. Except for those special screens, but that's not the point." It was then that Castiel noted the whisky bottle, empty, by Dean's bed. Which would explain the bloodshot whites of his eyes, Castiel thought. "TV - shows you the outside of people, but it makes them - emote and stuff, and have chick-flick moments, so eventually you start to think you know a person. Just by looking from outside, I mean. Like if you spend enough time with a person you can know them all the way through. On those buddy shows. Those guys are supposed to like know each other, and read each other's minds or some shit, because they work together all the time and are like partners. And the audience is supposed to. N Think they know them. But we don't know anyone like that, we humans, Cas. We can't do that x-ray vision. Sometimes we don't even see what's goddam obvious, for god's sake, but we still get all wrapped up and dependant on each other, like we think we're on TV or some shit. But this isn't TV, it's the goddam apocalypse, and the apocalypse is not a buddy show, you know what I'm saying?"  
And he passed out. Quite suddenly and dramatically, Dean fell backwards onto the bed and was asleep, dropping a second empty bottle which clinked and rolled across the floor to stop at Castiel's feet. He stopped it, quietly, with his shoe. He didn't know what a buddy show was, but he felt sad and certain that he'd let Dean down in some way, hadn't been good enough, had failed. He wanted to remind Dean that they had rescued Sam together, and that whatever Sam did after that wasn't Dean's fault and couldn't be helped by him. Perhaps if he could find another mission, and they could complete that successfully…  
Castiel waited patiently, but there were no more messages.

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rambling A/N: Though this is not slash, it was inspired in response to an article about slash developing out of buddy shows which I really disagreed with. I didn't write any pairings into this explicitly because I wanted the possibility of any to remain open, but in my little brain, I suppose I was thinking about how SPN is a huge producer of slash in part because it's rather more complicated than most buddy shows, and is more about the tragedy/failure/angst/or something implicit in the traditional *two-people-are-so-bonded-they-have-amazing-adventures-together-and-can-practically-read-eachother's-minds* dynamic. Or something.


End file.
